Gone
by knullabulla
Summary: Something of great value is taken when Downton Abbey is burglarized one evening
1. Taken

For as long as she could remember, Daisy Mason never saw much sense in curtains. After all, what was the sense in blocking out the light when one needed to be up and about in the wee dawn hours? And so she awoke that Thursday morning not from the scullery maid, Agnes, rapping upon the door (as had once been Daisy's own job) but from the simple pleasure of a ray of sunlight playing across her closed eyelids. Although it was still quite early and no one would have found fault with her if she were to luxuriate in bed until Agnes's arrival in another half hour, lingering images of fresh baked bread from her dream that night compelled her to start the day. As she dressed quickly, she mused to herself how pleased everyone would be by her thoughtfulness. Most mornings there wasn't adequate time to bake bread in time for the servants' breakfast-they usually made due with whatever was left uneaten by the Upstairs the day before-and to Daisy, such a state of affairs felt like a true injustice.

Practically skipping down the stairs leading from the attic bedrooms to the Servants Hall, the assistant cook began to day dream about how the others would react: Mrs. Patmore would tear up with pride as she offer Daisy a maternal smile; Mr. Bates and Anna would tilt their heads together as they inhaled the delicious aroma in one unified breath; Andy would declare his undying love for her; and Mr. Barrow would, with his usual dry sarcasm, declare that the bread was-

But she was unable to finish the thought for she suddenly found herself sprawled out on the floor having tripped over _something_.

At first, the sight before her didn't quite register in her still somewhat dream clouded mind. How odd that Mr. Barrow should be lying in the middle of the hall. As Daisy was pondering if he had been sleeping there all night, another part of her-a part that was now screaming at the top of her lungs as hysterics began to take hold-could now see the pool of blood congealing around the butler's head.

Was he dead? He certainly looked like he was dead. Oh God! He was dead!

And, seeing as how Daisy was now screaming loud enough to _wake_ the dead, it should have come as no surprise to her when Thomas groaned and muttered with irritation, "Bloody hell, Daisy! My head hurts enough as it is without you puncturing my ear drums." If he could only think more clearly, he might have given the young woman a real telling off for doing whatever it was that she had been doing and why was it so difficult to think?

Attempting to shake the brain muddling cobwebs from his head, but only making himself quite dizzy, Thomas looked at the pool of darkening maroon and gasped, "Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?" He was more than a bit flummoxed to find that someone was hugging him with a vise-like grip. Someone-Daisy! Now when did she get here?-was hugging him and crying. "Daisy? Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" he asked her, deeply concerned, albeit somewhat disgusted by the rivulets of snot that were dripping from her nose as she sobbed.

The door leading to the outside courtyard suddenly burst open and a very winded Bates practically fell through the door frame in his hurry to gain entrance. "We heard screaming!" gasped out Bates as he leaned against his cane, trying to catch his breath. A short moment later, Anna joined her husband looking on with apprehension as she clutched their infant son to her chest. Her eyes widened with shock as she took in the sight of Thomas sitting on the ground, his butler's livery soaked in red and a large, nasty looking gash upon his forehead.

"Looks like you had a run-in with a burglar, Tho- Mr. Barrow," pronounced Bates. Although he still found it quite irksome that this longstanding thorn in his side was now butler of Downton Abbey, his strong sense of professionalism-not to mention Anna's cryptic admonishment that "he needs our support"-kept him from making his distaste readily apparent. "I'll go up to inform his lordship. Anna, ring for the police and for-"

"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?" interrupted Barrow, who was looking quite worse for wear.

"Ring for the police and Dr. Clarkson," supplied Anna.

By this time, the entirety of the Downstairs staff, having been unceremoniously roused from their sleep by the loud commotion below, were gathered in the narrow hallway and were now talking all at once in a cacophony of anxious excitement.

"What happened?!"

"Is he alright?"

"Someone broke in?!"

"Did they take anything valuable?"

"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"

Thomas blinked with groggy confusion as his vision swam in-and-out of focus. For some reason he was now sitting in his favorite rocking chair by the fireplace in the Servants Hall and Dr. Clarkson was inexplicably staring very intently at him. Ignoring Clarkson's admonishment to hold still, he looked about the room and out into the hallway where the sight there made him yelp with surprise, "Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"

To say that he felt a bit insulted by the chorusing groans of irritation that met his expression of genuine concern would be an understatement, and he might have made a sharp retort had a gentle hand squeezing his own not drawn his attention. "Try to not take it to heart, Mr. Barrow," whispered Miss Baxter, who turned out to be the owner of the previously mentioned hand, "You're concussed and have been asking the same questions all morning. I'm sorry if we sound a bit impatient."

It was then that Thomas noticed how unexpectedly crowded the Servants Hall was. All the usual suspects were present and accounted for-Miss Baxter, of course, as well as the Bateses, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and Andy, not to mention Paul the hall boy and Agnes the scullery maid-but he was at a bit of a loss as to why Mr. Carson was there so early (was it early? Thomas found that he wasn't entirely certain) or why Lord Grantham was presently speaking with Sgt. Willis or-

"Blimey, that's a lot of blood! Was somebody injured?"

Lord Grantham groaned as he pinched the furrow of his brow between his fingers before turning back to Sgt. Willis, who was reviewing his investigation notes with the earl, "Since nothing appears to be missing or disturbed, I'd say that Mr. Barrow most likely startled the burglar just as he came inside-probably someone hoping to steal a little petty cash sight unseen-and he scampers off empty-handed after a short scuffle. We can still call in Scotland Yard to dust for fingerprints, but I have to warn you that the probability of making an arrest is low. Nevertheless, I do suggest that you have your staff make a thorough inventory to see if anything of value is miss-"

Without warning, Sgt. Willis was interrupted by a frightfully pale and wide-eyed Lady Mary. "Papa!" she cried out, her voice filled with abject terror. "Papa, it's George! It's George! He's missing! George is gone!"


	2. Alone

_Where am I? It's so dark. I can't see!_

"Did he see you?! Did he recognize you?!" _That man sounds angry._

"Well, if you had been man enough to actually bring a _loaded_ pistol, we wouldn't have to worry-"

"Did he bloody well see you or not?!" _That man said a bad word to that woman. Nanny said she'd wash our mouths out with soap if we say bad words._

"No. No, he couldn't have. It was pitch black down there. I made sure we shut off the lights, didn't I? There's no way he could have seen-" _I don't want to be here! I want to go home!_

"But what if he saw enough to remember seeing you at the wedding?" _I want to go home! I want my mummy! I want Donk! I want Mr. Barrow!_

"As if I would willingly spend any time gazing at a member of the Crawley _family_ let alone a member of their _staff_!"

George began to whimper, but his cries were muffled by a gag stuffed in his mouth. His tiny wrists hurt as he struggled against the ropes that bound him to the hard wooden chair, which only served to make him cry even more pitifully and to struggle even further against those painful ropes. Worst of all was the bag over his head. Everything was so very dark, and George was afraid of the dark. If he was home, somebody would be sure to turn on the lights and hug him and tell him how much he was loved.

But no one was coming to turn on the light, to hug him, to tell him how much he was loved.

George was alone and he was very, very frightened.

A hand cupped itself over his nose and mouth filling his nostrils with a smell that made him feel as though he were floating. But just before drifting unconscious from the chloroform, he heard the woman say to the man, "Patience my darling. You will get what's rightfully yours."

 **Author's Note: Before anyone goes off on a wild goose chase, let's just agree the nanny is NOT abusing the kids and that "wash your mouth out with soap" was just an empty threat she brings out whenever Sybbie repeats exciting new words she's overheard from Daddy.**


	3. Anything

Thomas Barrow would deny it to anyone fool enough to suggest it, but over the course of his life, he had grown increasingly convinced that if there were such a thing as reincarnation and karmic retribution, he was living proof that he had fucked up royally in a past life. And so when he awoke in the middle of the afternoon with a note pinned to his undershirt, he more-or-less shrugged his shoulders at the uncanny sense of déjà vu that swept through him.

Recognizing Miss Baxter's neatly slanted writing, he read the note and wondered (for the fifth time that day) just how many times he had repeated this act:

 _DEAR MR. BARROW:_

 _PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED. THERE WAS A BREAK-IN LAST NIGHT AND YOU SUFFERED A BAD CONCUSSION. PLEASE DO NOT WORRY. THE POLICE ARE HANDLING THINGS. YOU ARE TO CONVALESCE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY-DR. CLARKSON'S ORDERS._

 _-PHYLLIS_

Below the neatly written message was what appeared to be a hastily written postscript:

 _please pin this note to your shirt when you are done reading it_

As he re-pinned the note, he contemplated following Miss Baxter's instructions for a grand total of three-and-a-half seconds before indignation took hold. "Someone breaks into Downton Abbey, and they expect me to just sit around in bed with my dick in my hands," Thomas muttered bitterly to himself-despite suspecting that was the very _last_ thing anyone wished him to do with his hands. As he hauled himself into a seated position, nearly falling over in the process as a wave of dizziness took hold, he continued his irate narration, "Would Mr. Carson stand for this?! No! He would not- No. Wait. Standing up is what I need to be doing. Would Mr. Carson take this, um, lying down?! Yes, that's much better. Well, I won't stand for- uh, lie down for this!"

In some forgotten, more rational corner of his brain, Thomas had to concede that talking aloud to oneself as he was currently doing tended to mark one as a complete nutter and that he should probably stop before the men in the white coats came along to drag him off to a nicely padded room. Determined to show everyone that he was in perfect control of the situation-was there a situation? There was a note about _something_ -he sprung out of bed.

And promptly fell back into it when the room decided to start spinning wildly out of control.

And so, it was upon his _eighth_ reading of Miss Baxter's note that Thomas finally managed to make his way out of bed, albeit a bit shakily, to dress for the day-or to be more precise, the afternoon. He had plenty of shirts, waistcoats, and trousers, but for some inexplicable reason, his bespoke tailored butler's livery jacket was missing from the wardrobe. Perhaps he left it in the Servants Hall?

His palms began to sweat and a wave of queasiness washed through him upon thinking about the Servants Hall. If he had to give what he was currently feeling a name, it would be "dread." Thomas struggled to piece together the shards of his fragmented memory. The image of two masked figures standing in a Servants Hall bathed in darkness flashed before his mind's eye. Feeling as though he were watching a dusty old film reel, Thomas saw himself reaching out to grab one of the figures. A mask. No, not a mask. A knitted black balaclava. There was a black balaclava in his hands, and now he could see that it was a woman. Every time he tried to focus on her face, the film became clouded with dust. But he knew her from somewhere; he was sure of it. And she had something. Something that Thomas wanted back desperately.

The film cut off abruptly, and Thomas reached instinctively to his forehead, which he found was wrapped in gauze. The note. He remembered now-Baxter's note. There had been a break-in, and he had been injured. But there was something he needed to tell Lady Mary. It was very important that he tell her.

No longer caring that he was improperly dressed,Thomas raced down the stairs to the Servants Hall to see if Anna knew where he could find Lady Mary. But when he got there, he found the entrance was cordoned off with yellow tape and the entire downstairs was swarming with police.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said a dower looking detective who didn't look like he gave a fiddler's fart about Thomas's pardon, "But you can't come in here until we're done dusting for prints. At any rate, you're supposed to be in the library being questioned with the rest of them, not lollygagging down here."

Under ordinary circumstances Thomas would have most certainly started plotting the detective's demise for daring to speak so rudely, but in this instance all he could manage was a mumbled apology as he backed out of the room and headed to the library as told. The foul, burning taste of bile at the back of his throat told him that now was not the time for petty revenge.

No sooner had he entered the library, did he collide into a wide-eyed and bewildered looking Andy. "Mr. Barrow! You're not supposed to be out of bed! Dr. Clarkson said that you're supposed to rest until-."

"Andy," Thomas interrupted, "what is going on? Why are the police here?!"

Andy grimaced slightly as though he were embarrassed for Thomas, "You don't already know? _Oh right, your head._ Master George was kidnapped last night."

Before Thomas had a chance to respond to or even process this shocking news, Lady Mary appeared by his side and snarled, "No, thanks to you! Why didn't you stop them?! He was right there and you could've stopped them! How could you let them take my baby?! Why didn't you stop them!" Her entire body seemed to quiver with anger mingled with grief as she unleashed all of her frustration upon Thomas.

Feeling as though a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his chest and was squeezing the life out of him, Thomas struggled to stutter out a response, "M'lady, I- I don't- I don't understand! I'm sorry I don't know- I don't-" He didn't know how to finish the statement.

Lady Mary's outburst had drawn the attention most everyone present in the room, and soon both Henry Talbot and Tom Branson had come to mediate.

"Mary, darling, please think of the baby! You mustn't get yourself so worked up!" Henry cooed to his heavily pregnant wife as he looked over her shoulder at Thomas with an apologetic half smile.

As Thomas watched Henry gently lead Lady Mary out of the room, he heard Tom Branson quietly say over his shoulder, "She didn't mean any of that. She's upset and frightened, but she knows how much you love the children and that you'd sooner die then let harm come to them."

Thomas was surprised to hear the other man speak with what sounded like admiration for him. After all, it was no secret that he was oftentimes quite frosty towards the young widower-a frostiness born not so much out of jealousy (although there was plenty of that) but a sense of loyalty for the late Sybil Branson. "Yes, sir," he confirmed softly as he gazed at young Sybbie who was held tightly in her father's arms, "The children mean the world to me, sir."

From across the room, a detective called out, "Mr. Barrow, I presume? I was told you wouldn't be available for fingerprinting and questioning until tomorrow. But so long as you've decided to grace us with your presence, what do you say we get this wrapped up?"

"He acts like you had your head cracked open to personally inconvenience him," muttered Tom before noticing the look of fear and distress upon Barrow's face, "Oh, don't worry! Everyone in the house has to be fingerprinted. They even took Sybbie's. Show 'im, love." They each held up an ink-stained hand for Thomas to examine, "It's so they'll know which ones belong and which ones don't."

"Mr. Barrow," grumbled the detective impatiently, "the sooner we have you processed, the sooner we can find George Crawley."

Thomas nodded and began walking towards the detective, but even as he did so, he couldn't take his eyes off of Sybbie, whose own eyes were red and glassy from countless tears. He really would do anything for those children, and he vowed then and there that he would do anything to make certain George came home safe and sound.


	4. Accused

Thomas found himself wincing slightly as the rather gruff inspector detective ground his thumb into the blotter paper. It was not so many years ago-after the _incident_ with Jimmy-that he had imagined what it would be like to have his freedom stripped away, to be hauled off in shackles. The scenario had re-played itself in his head for longer than he cared to admit. Even after the Thirsk fair, he would catch himself wondering if _today_ would be the day everything fell apart.

"If you'll just have a seat over here, Mr. Barrow," beckoned a hitherto silent gentleman, another of Scotland Yards finest, "And please do pardon Inspector Detective Daniels for his abruptness. I'm afraid the chap was quite keen to play 'bad cop' today, and I just didn't have the heart to deny him."

Thomas nodded uncertainly at this odd man's incongruously jocular behavior given the circumstances. Frankly, he would have preferred Daniels' gruffness, for that at least fit his expectations for what being questioned by the police would be like. Indicating to the davenport with a tilt of his head, Thomas was surprised to find his voice shaking slightly with nerves as he explained, "Servants aren't supposed to-"

"It's quite alright, Barrow," interrupted Lord Grantham before muttering almost under his breath, "I dare say Dr. Clarkson will have my head for allowing you to be questioned so soon after your injury, but time is of the essence. Propriety can wait for another day."

Thomas nodded to his lordship before sitting gingerly upon the large sofa, his back ramrod straight as though he were presenting himself for a military inspection.

"Now, then. Why don't we begin? I'm Detective Inspector Jansson. Would you please state your name for the record?"

"Thomas Barrow."

"And your occupation and current place of residence?"

"I'm the butler here at Downton Abbey. Um, I live here, too."

Jansson's forehead wrinkled slightly with confusion, "Sorry? I thought the other gentleman, uh-" he made a cursory glance at his notebook, "-Mr. Carson was the butler?"

Sometimes, Thomas wondered why Lord Grantham ever even bothered to change his job title from under butler to butler. "I took over as butler at the new year when Mr. Carson retired," he explained somewhat tersely.

"The Dowager Countess, Lord and Lady Merton and-"

 _Well, speak of the devil_ , thought Thomas as Carson announced the new arrivals.

"-Mr. Lawrence Grey." The annoyance was unmistakable in Carson's voice as he announced the final member of the quartet.

"Dickie! Mamma! Cousin Isabel! Won't you please have a seat?" warbled Lady Cora.

Nobody offered Larry a seat.

"We came as soon as we heard the news. How absolutely dreadful!" explained Lord Merton with distress.

"We knew something was wrong when _Spratt_ ran all the way from the Dower house to fetch me," supplied the Dowager Countess, "the man is of many talents, but running is not one of them." Dropping her voice low, she whispered conspiratorially to Cora, "Believe me, it was not my idea to bring Mr. Grey with us. He made the rather inconvenient decision to visit his father for tea. Not that _any_ day would be much better."

Once everyone had settled into their seats-although Larry chose to remain standing as though it were his plan all along-Detective Inspector Jansson resumed his interrogation. "Now, then, Mr. Barrow, if you could please tell me your activities the previous evening."

"Yes, well, um. I was checking the house over after the family and staff had gone to bed-"

"Is this part of your usual duties? Checking the house?"

"Um, yes, sir. I like to keep an eye on things." Well, didn't _that_ sound familiar.

"And did anything seem out of the ordinary?"

"Not that I recall, but my memory is a little fuzzy," Thomas admitted. "No, wait!"

"Yes?"

"I remember hearing something from the Servants Hall. I thought- I thought the hall boy may have been trying to sneak a girl from the village up to his room."

Paul blushed crimson and shuffled his feet slightly, for Barrow was closer to the truth than he imagined. Only the girl in question-a certain young scullery maid by the name of Agnes Bigsby-already lived under their roof and had rebuffed Paul's advances with a knee sharply executed towards his ego. As well as more sensitive parts of his anatomy.

"And did you see anything once you were in the Servants Hall?"

Thomas hesitated slightly as he attempted to gather his still fragmented thoughts, "Yes. There were two people. Um, dressed in black. And, um, wearing balaclavas. It was a man and a woman-"

"A woman?!" Jansson interrupted in surprise.

"Yes, sir. She was carrying George. He looked like he was sleeping, but I suppose he may have been dosed with something? I, um, I remember grabbing for him and, uh, in the scuffle, the woman's mask came off."

"It came off? So you managed to see her face?" The Inspector Detective was practically bouncing in his seat at this revelation.

"Yes, sir. But I'm not-"

"Oh, this is absolutely ridiculous!" interrupted a somewhat inebriated Larry Grey, holding the glass of scotch to which he helped himself once it was clear that no one was going to offer him a drink. "It's obvious the man is in cahoots with the kidnappers. Probably planning to split the ransom with them!"

Nearly everyone in the room gasped audibly at the accusation.

"Larry," admonished Isabel, "just look at the poor man's head!"

"Well, I'm _dreadfully_ sorry to be the only one here capable of calling a spade, a spade. But when you have a known pervert-"

"Now look here!" Tom interjected angrily. Barrow could be a horse's arse at times, but even _he_ didn't deserve such accusations.

"What's this?" asked Jansson, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid poor Mr. Barrow was victim of a vicious rumor a number of years ago and for some unfathomable reason, Mr. Grey" Lord Gratham explained as he glared daggers at the man, "has chosen to resurrect these rumors during this family's hour of most dire need."

"So Mr. Grey's accusations are unfounded?"

"Of course they are! If they were true, Mr. Barrow wouldn't be butler here, now would he?"

Larry scoffed and muttered in a stage-whisper clearly intended to be heard by everyone in the room, "Why anyone would allow someone like _that_ to be around children-"

Before he had a chance to continue down this particular train of thought, Lady Cora interrupted. Trained from her teenage years and onward to play the part of the dutiful wife-quiet and obedient-it was rare that she allowed her anger to show. But when it did, one would be wise to take heed. "Mr. Grey, if you are meaning to disparage a man who risked his own life to save my daughter from a room engulfed in flames, I suggest you leave," she commanded icily.

Larry huffed petulantly as he grabbed his overcoat from Carson, who had by all appearances magically materialized the moment Mr. Grey's marching orders had been given.

"Oh, Mr. Grey!" called out Jansson, "Before you take your leave, we'll be needing you're fingerprints."

Larry's mouth momentarily fell open with shock. "You can't be serious!" he objected before storming out of the room without waiting for a reply.

Watching him go, Jansson smiled slightly to himself. "Oh, it's no matter. You were kind enough to leave your prints for us right here," he said almost gaily as he deposited Larry's abandoned scotch glass into an evidence bag.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you who the woman was," a somewhat breathless and rather more-pale-than-usual-which for him was saying a _lot_ -Barrow finally managed to declare, "Was there anything else you needed?"

"You're certain you can't identify the woman you saw?"

Thomas sighed. "I wish I could. I'm positive that I've seen her somewhere, but I just can't get a clear picture." He hung his head in defeat, "I'm sorry. I wish to God I could remember."

"Well, perhaps it'll come to you with time."

"Thank you, sir. May I be excused? I'd like to get some air." Truth be told, he was desperately fighting the urge to vomit all over the Detective Inspector.

"Yes. I believe I have everything I need for now."

"Thank you, sir," said Thomas as he rose to his feet.

"Oh, and Mr. Barrow?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'll be in touch."


	5. Fatherhood

The crunch of gravel being trodden underfoot alerted him to the presence of someone approaching from behind. Not bothering to turn around, Thomas took a drag from his cigarette before sighing in a low voice, "I'm _fine_ Miss Baxter. I just needed to get some air."

"I'll be sure to tell her that if I should happen to see her."

Thomas quickly whirled around to see that it was in fact Lady Mary who was standing behind him. Feeling exceedingly flustered at his unintentional impropriety, he immediately ground out the cigarette beneath his shoe, extinguishing the ember. "M'lady! I apologize— I had no idea that—" he managed to stutter out in his embarrassment but stopped when the woman standing opposite to him raised her hand.

A chaffinch was singing to his mate somewhere in the canopy of tree branches above their heads. How very odd, it seemed to Thomas, that the little song bird was continuing on with its life as though nothing had happened, as though the world hadn't come to a stop the moment George Crawley was taken from his home.

"Tom told me what Larry Grey had said."

Feeling his stomach twist with nausea and anxiety as the blood drained from his face, Thomas began to hyperventilate as he struggled to formulate a response, "M'lady, I swear to you— I would never— could never harm any of the children. Please, I beg of you— The children are very dear to—" He stopped short when he saw that Lady Mary's face bore a look that was something akin to sympathy; although, Thomas was quite certain that there was no reason for someone from the upper classes to feel much of anything for someone like him.

"No, no. I know that!" She said, shaking her head and offering him a sad, tight-lipped smile. "I know how much you care about the children, especially George. I came out here because I— well, because I wanted to apologize."

For a brief moment, Thomas wondered if his head injury had resulted in some sort of brain damage that was presently causing him to hallucinate. And so, he merely stood there with his mouth hanging slightly open. Did Lady Mary really just say that she wanted to apologize? And not only that she wanted to apologize, but that she wanted to apologize to _him_? Struggling to find something articulate to say in response, Thomas finally managed to say, "Uh….?"

So much for articulate.

"If Matthew was here, I imagine that _he'd_ be the one I would be tearing into for not—" Her voice broke off momentarily as a small choking sound came from her throat. "What I'm saying is, is that I _do_ understand how much you care for the children, that you care for them like they were your own." She was standing in profile to Thomas, gazing at something—or perhaps nothing—in the distance and seemed to be contemplating upon what to say next. "If Matthew was here," she continued with a greater sense of conviction in her tone, "I imagine that he'd be the one I would be tearing into for not protecting his son. But since he's not here, I put that burden on you. And I'm sorry for that."

 _But what about Mr. Talbot?_ Thomas wanted to ask but didn't. Instead, he hoarsely replied, "Please don't apologize, m'lady. Mr. Matthew was a good man; and if you truly believe that I am worthy to stand in for him as Master George's protector, then I would consider it to be an honor."

She nodded almost imperceptibly as she wrapped her arms around herself, and Thomas wondered if she was seeking comfort from an embrace she was longing to give her son. Lady Mary had never been as demonstrative with her love for George as Mr. Branson and Lady Edith were with their children. Thomas tried to not think upon how much pain and regret this difference must have been causing Lady Mary at that moment.

"How is Miss Sybbie?" he asked, hoping to change the topic when there was only one topic needing to be discussed.

Lady Mary's face darkened into a scowl. Her voice shook slightly with barely controlled rage, "They threatened her, so she wouldn't make a sound. They pointed a _gun_ at my niece— at a five-year-old _child_ — And said if she made a sound—" She clapped a hand over her mouth, unable to continue.

"My God! Mr. Branson must be nearly apocalyptic!" exclaimed Thomas, once more forgetting propriety. "What of Nanny? Did she sleep through the whole thing?!" A tiny (and admittedly quite selfish) part of Thomas felt a twinge of pride knowing that Lady Mary had placed a greater expectation for protecting George upon him than she did for the woman who was technically being paid to do so.

"We found her hog-tied and gagged in the nursery's wardrobe. Dr. Clarkson suspects chloroform was used."

Thomas nodded slowly, "That makes sense. I seem to remember that George looked like he was sleeping."

Lady Mary nodded at this new piece of information as tears began to spill from her eyes. "Oh, God. This is such a nightmare," she weeped.

Unsure if it was something _he_ should do but certain that it was something _Carson_ would have done, Thomas hesitantly strode forward to wrap his arms around her. As he felt her body relax into his embrace, he softly murmured, "We'll get him back, m'lady. I swear to you. We'll get him back."


	6. Lemons

"Did you take care of it?!" _The woman sounds angry. Why does she always sound so angry?_

"Yes, but I don't—"

"Don't tell me you're having second thoughts? It's _your_ money that fool of a woman robbed from you. You have every right to do what ever is necessary to get it back."

"No, no. Of course you're right my love."

 _I have to go potty_.

"You know that I only want what's best for you. We'll drive to York this afternoon and mail the ransom note from there."

"I can see you've been busy!" _That woman must have done something funny to make the man laugh like— I have to go potty!_

"Letters cut out of the newspaper? Isn't that the proper way to— Why is he squirming like that?"

 _I have to go potty! I have to go potty! I have to go potty!_

"How the hell should I know?"

"Now, George, darling. You mustn't misbehave like that. You must be a good boy and do what the grownups says." _I don't like her voice. It makes my tummy hurt._

On the morning of George's fourth birthday, he had snuck down to the kitchen in order to spy upon the preparations for his cake—a cloyingly sweet lemon sponge cake with buttercream frosting, which up until that point had been his favorite. Finding themselves unable to deny the little boy on his birthday—a bittersweet day that sent his mother into quiet mourning for her late husband—Mrs. Patmore and Daisy (as well as Mr. Bates, Anna, Mr. Barrow, the groundskeeper's assistant. Alright, it was the whole bloody Downstairs) snuck spoonfuls of cake batter to the child until he had devoured his weight. And that was how George came to spend his fourth birthday in bed, clutching a frequently emptied chamberpot of partially-digested lemon cake batter.

The woman's voice reminded George of that lemon cake.

 _I HAVE TO GO POTTY!_

"George, you're being a very naughty little boy! I insist that you sit still this very min— Oh, for God's sakes!"

The man started to laugh again but broke off sharply at the loud _SMACK_ that resonated throughout the room, "Oh, for the love of— you didn't need to strike him. What do you expect? Four-year-olds aren't exactly known for having exceedingly large bladders. I told you that we should have taken him to—"

"Go to York, _now_ , and get that letter posted! The sooner the Crawley's have the letter, the sooner we'll have your money back!"

"Yes, darling. You're quite right."

After that, the room was silent, save for the muffled sounds of George's cries.


	7. Sanctuary

Feeling as though he were on the verge of being crushed by the weight of his concerns, Robert entered the bedchamber to find Cora seated at her vanity with Miss Baxter silently running a boar bristle brush through her long brunette hair. It was a scene that he saw every evening before retiring to bed, yet it seemed so alien in a world where his grandson could be snatched away by thieves in the night. But with the click of the door being shut, the spell was broken. "What did Detective Inspector Jansson say?" implored Cora as she met Robert's eyes through the reflection in the mirror.

Robert groaned—partially due to frustration and partially due to his chronic gastritis—as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "I think I managed to dissuade him from giving Barrow any grief," he said with a sigh, "At the very least, he's assured me that his only concern is finding George, so we have that at least."

The conversation with the inspector detective had been an odd one. Even as Robert desperately tried to assure the man that Larry Gray's accusations were nothing short of ludicrous, Jansson had dismissively waved a hand stating that _"I'm afraid your Mr. Barrow needs to work on his poker face. While I don't suspect Mr. Barrow of masterminding a scheme that would leave him with a grade 3 concussion, I do have to say that I've seen many guilty men in my time, but none with as much of a deer-in-the-headlamps look as him. I think we both know that the more salient point of Mr. Gray's accusation came as no surprise to you, so I'm curious why you would elect to keep a man of that sort in your employment?"_

Twisting around in her chair, Cora asked Miss Baxter, "How is Barrow?"

Baxter grimaced slightly, "He was complaining of a headache during supper and went to bed early, m'lady."

"Oh, I hope he knows that we could never think poorly of him. Not when he's done so much for this family," fretted Cora as her eyes locked once again with Robert's through the vanity mirror.

Not wishing to contradict her ladyship, Baxter hedged, "I'm certain Mr. Barrow's one and only wish is for Master George to come home safely, m'lady."

Cora grimaced. People often mistook it for a cloying smile when really it was the only thing that she could do to keep from screaming. She had been taught since childhood that it was a woman's duty to listen and to support; but with each passing year, she found the urge to scream growing more and more. "Thank you, Baxter," she said, dismissing her lady's maid for the evening.

The room was silent for several long moments after Miss Baxter's departure until Robert whispered, "You still blame me for what happened with Barrow, don't you?"

"I don't blame you, Robert," Cora replied before taking a slight inhalation of air as though she were about to say something more. But she remained silent.

Robert felt his body sag slightly, "You were about to say, 'but'. There was a _but_ you're leaving out."

Clasping her hands in her lap, Cora twirled her wedding band around her finger. "He saved Edith's life," she finally managed to say, "but I don't blame you that he wished to take his own."

"Well, perhaps you should. Because I certainly do," Robert whispered.

Turning around to look at her husband fully, Cora reassured him, "Darling, you mustn't say such things. Barrow has never been particularly good at letting anyone know what he is feeling. What happened came as a shock to us all."

But Robert wasn't listening, for he was lost in a maze of guilt inside his own mind, "Mary _warned_ me. She tried to tell me that— well, she said it was George who felt close to Barrow. I suppose she didn't want me thinking it unseemly for a servant to take an interest in one of the children. And what do I do? I tell a man who, as far as I know, has had no contact with his family for nearly two decades— a man who will most probably never have a family of his own— I tell that man that it doesn't matter how much he genuinely loves my grandchildren— I tell that man that his _services are no longer needed_. He saved my daughter's life, and I ripped his heart out without a second thought."

"Robert you mustn't—" Cora attempted to interject unsuccessfully.

"And just as I think that perhaps the damage has been mended, along comes _bloody_ Larry Gray to accuse him of being a monster," Robert gritted out between clenched teeth. Glancing at his wife, he warily apologized, "Cora, darling, I'm sorry that you had to hear about Barrow's… proclivities from _Larry Gray_ of all people. I hope it won't change how you feel about him."

Cora openly scoffed, "Robert, you must think me an idiot if you believe that I didn't already know about _that_."

"Oh? How did you…?"

The corners of her mouth quirking upward ever so slightly, she implored, "Do you remember what you said when Thomas first came to work here?"

A shake of his head indicated that he did not.

"You said, 'Well, at least we don't need to worry about having _that one_ around the girls.'"

Robert flushed slightly, "Ah. Well. Um, yes. I _thought_ that I was being coy. But not so much, I suppose?"

"Not so much," she confirmed

Echoing his daughter's words from earlier in the day, Robert lamented, "This is such a nightmare. To think that George is out _god knows_ where! I'm just thankful that it doesn't look like Larry has sent them on a wild goose chase."

This time, Cora's grimace was unmistakeable.

"What is it?"

"Cousin Isobel rang. She says that— that Larry wants to _apologize_ for speaking out of turn about Barrow."

"You're joking!" exclaimed Robert incredulously. "Larry Gray has never apologized for anything in his life!"

Nodding in agreement, Cora speculated, "I suppose he doesn't wish to alienate himself from his father any more than he already has now that Dickey and Isobel are married."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully as he pulled back the thick duvet to climb into bed, Robert agreed somewhat reluctantly, "Yes, I suppose that may very well be the case. But I can't say I'm pleased with Larry. Not one bit. First he had it in for Tom. Then those awful things he said about Isobel. And now my _butler_ for god's sakes! I swear, the man's snobbery knows no bounds."

He may have gone on longer with his tirade, but a chaste kiss on the lips from his wife silenced him. "Let's try to get some sleep, darling. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for all of us."

"You're right. You are _always_ right. Goodnight, my love."

"Goodnight."

 _"_ _I can't and won't say if your suspicions about Barrow are correct. But to answer your question: why might I elect to employ a man of that sort? For years, working in service has offered sanctuary for members of our society who have found themselves living on the margins. It has been a refuge for those who have sought for a safe and—at least I hope—loving home. The young woman working in the kitchen as an assistant cook came here when she was just a child. This nearly starved little scrap of a girl whose family could barely afford to keep a roof over their heads, let alone food in their children's bellies. As I see it, being in service offers a man of that sort a safe haven where he need not explain why he has never taken a wife. And so, I suppose the idea of denying what could very well be a_ family _to men who, in all likelihood, have been disowned by their own flesh and blood— I suppose I just find the idea needlessly cruel. Perhaps that makes me out of step with my fellow Englishman but, frankly, I don't care."_


End file.
